


Changeant

by Charmian



Category: Black Sails
Genre: F/F, F/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Polyamory, Post-Canon, Threesome - F/F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-15
Updated: 2018-01-15
Packaged: 2019-03-05 01:55:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13377672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Charmian/pseuds/Charmian
Summary: Max decides to bring Jack back into the fold.





	Changeant

**Author's Note:**

> 1) Fair warning that this story mostly leans toward Max/Jack (though there is certainly Max/Anne!), so if that's not your cup of tea, you may want to click back.
> 
> 2) Just FYI, I decided to use male pronouns for Mark/Mary in this. Just thought it would be easier!

It has become his habit to bring Max a token after a voyage. Two times back it was a delicate tea set from China (one saucer broken in the straw packing), and before that, a stout little stool carved in dark wood from Brazil. Mostly it’s textiles of some nature, linens and chintzes and even the occasional velvet, liberated from captains’ chests or bought at some faraway market. In that half grandiose, half serious way of his, he once declared it tribute to Nassau’s queen; Anne just rolled her eyes, as if to say _just humor him_.

Which confounded her. She’s used to lovers’ tokens, but this? She’d turned it from side to side, trying to see his angle. Jack is nothing if not strategic, and yet she couldn’t discern what outcome he’d hoped to achieve — there were no negotiations in which he might benefit from her good word, no ventures in which she might guide his interests to a more advantageous position. Finally, unable to stop staring at a bolt of ochre-colored cotton lying at the foot of the bed like some great, unanswered riddle, she asked Anne. Anne had lifted her head from its place on Max's breastbone and cracked an eye. Her expression attached no particular significance to the gift; she said, _he thought it’d suit you_ , and her lazy smile suggested she agreed. 

It leads her to the strange — yet unavoidable — conclusion that he must feel some fondness for her. That he probably thinks of her from time to time, even when he’s not required to. He gave her a mirror, once ( _Venetian glass_ , he noted proudly) and she caught a glimpse of him standing beside her as she’d turned it over to the sun; she realized that for all the things he shares with Anne, this isn’t one of them. Anne simply has no capacity to feign interest in the spoils of civilization. 

If she’s honest with herself, Max will admit she hasn’t had much practice with relationships that aren’t romantic or transactional; that it seems unnatural to think of Jack as a friend. But she thinks about their reflection sometimes, of Jack in his ridiculous coat and herself, in a fine new dress, the both of them tiny, bright spots in corner of the frame, and how their hair blurred together where it met along the beveled edge.

Max has had a lifetime of partners and clients and allies, but very few friends. Some nights, gazing into that mirror, she wonders if the problem with Jack isn’t that she doesn’t know how accept his friendship with grace. It’s that Anne isn’t the only place they overlap, that there’s too much of him in her, that maybe he’s a cautionary tale — that maybe, when she catches him watching Anne with longing, Max is seeing her own future.

—

Anne returns before the rest of the men, before word even reaches Max that the _Dawn_ has anchored in the bay. Max turns to hand a boy a candlestick and when she turns back, Anne is abruptly there, the morning sun spilling over her shoulders. She looks scrubbed by the sea, her face sharp and her hair shining. They both hesitate for a moment too long, then Max exhales and she’s crossing the brothel courtyard, catching Anne in her arms. Anne responds fiercely, pressing every inch of herself against Max. Max can feel her own heart beating hard against her stays.

Neither of them can seem to find words.

Or, rather — the words bubble up from each of them; they begin, they run over each other, stopping and starting, half-formed declarations and reassurances. Finally, they resolve upon a kiss and breathy, relieved laughter. Anne’s fingers curl around Max’s, and for the first time in three weeks, Max feels the tension drain from her shoulders. 

“Upstairs?” Anne asks, grinning.

She takes the lead, tugging Max up the stairs. Max lets her. Anne is a sight to behold when she’s covered in nothing but sweat and sheets, but there’s something about these moments when she returns from the sea — sunburned, hair tangled, swords riding the sway of her hips — that she’s _transcendent_.

Anne tosses her hat in the direction of the bed while Max closes the door closed behind them. The sun hasn’t reached this room yet, but neither of them move to light a candle; Anne is already shucking off her shirt. 

“I missed you,” Max says softly. 

Anne pauses, then pulls her shirt over her head. She lets it drop. She comes to Max, taking her face between her hands, and presses her lips to Max’s, hard. Their teeth click, and then Max can taste her, can feel the way her breath catches when Max spreads her fingers across her bare back.

Together, they stumble back. Anne’s leg sets the stool at the vanity wobbling, and Max sets it right before guiding her down onto it. Anne gazes up at her, the necklaces hanging between her breasts rising and falling — there’s a new one, shaped like a half moon. Max last saw it on Mark Read.

Something must change in her expression, because Anne lays a hand on her waist. “What?” she asks. Concern knots her brow, and Max feels a sudden rush of tenderness for her.

Max shakes her head. Sinking to her knees, she deftly unbuttons Anne’s trousers, slipping the linen to her thighs. Max kisses her flat belly, the ridge of her hip bone; her tongue leaves a wet line up Anne’s thigh. Anne tastes like brine and salt, smells warm and musky. Max darts her tongue between Anne’s folds, circling once, then ever-so-gently, grazes the nub at the top. Anne swears and arches off the little stool. 

Max smiles wickedly.

Anne clutches at the crown of her head, and at first, Max thinks she means to urge her on. But then she’s lifting Max’s chin with her other hand, guiding her to her mouth for a leisurely kiss. When they part, Anne looks at her, half-lidded and hazy.

“Missed you too,” she says.

Her fingers begin to blindly work the knot at the base of Max’s stays, and Max aids her, with a nimbleness born of long practice. Together, they tug the laces loose as Anne rises to pull off her boots. Anne’s trousers puddle on the floor, followed shortly by Max’s stomacher and stays. Max shrugs out of her shift. The morning air is humid on her breasts.

They both regard Max’s skirts thoughtfully.

“Fuck it,” Anne says after a moment, wrapping her arms around Max’s waist. They tumble back onto the bed. Max lands on her back, Anne above her, her legs lost in the fluffy drifts of petticoat and overskirt. Anne’s hair tickles Max’s upper arms.

Despite the roughness of her trade, Anne’s touch is remarkably gentle. She caresses Max’s cheek softly, her expression caught between serenity and wonder. Max’s heart stutters; she will never become accustomed to Anne regarding her as though she is some sort of revelation.

Max pushes herself up on her elbows slowly. She hesitates an inch from Anne’s lips, her entire vision filled with her, breathing her air. This close, she can see the fine lines near Anne’s eyes from squinting into the sun, the delicate curve of her nostril — all the details her imagination has failed to account for these past three weeks. 

Softly, her lips brush Anne’s. The sheer, tactile pleasure of her bottom lip catching on Anne’s sends a shiver through Max, and her eyes slip closed. But Anne’s patience is cracking: her mouth seizes upon Max’s, kissing her with renewed urgency. Max’s hand tangles against Anne’s scalp. She pulls Anne down, ignoring the crescent moon, the cold edge of a foreign shape caught between their skin.

—

They emerge in the afternoon, after a long nap and Max’s gown has been reassembled. Anne requires no help with her own ensemble, so she sits on the edge of the bed as Max reapplies the kohl around her eyes. Every now and then their eyes meet in the mirror; the corner of Anne’s mouth twitches up in an affectionate smirk.

If Anne has noticed her unease about Mark’s pendant, she has made no mention of it. At some point, though, she has quietly removed her necklaces, leaving them strewn across the seat of a chair in the corner. Max is aware she might be being foolish; all the same, the sight of Anne’s bare throat calms her in ways where simple reassurance would have fallen short. 

Downstairs, Jack and Mark have claimed the table at the center of the courtyard, with Featherstone and Idelle between them. Jack and Mark part to make space for them, while Max crooks a finger, bringing a girl trotting over with two chairs. She requests food, too, something hot from next door — suddenly she feels ravenous. 

She sits flanked by Anne on one side, Jack on the other; Anne’s hand rests in her lap. Jack sniffs the two bottles closest at hand, and slides one to her, followed by a cup. Red wine.

“I trust you had a profitable journey?” she asks him. Featherstone and Mark are deep in conversation about the uses and merits of chain-shot. 

“Anne didn’t tell you?” he begins, but he glances at Anne — who admittedly looks a bit more disheveled than usual — and gives a knowing snort. “Well, no matter. Profitable enough. We took a moderate prize, and there were no casualties.”

“Besides Mr. Denton’s finger,” Mark interjects. 

“Besides Mr. Denton’s finger, yes,” Jack agrees, and then as an aside to Max: “Mr. Denton and the cook have been at it for weeks over a spice cake.”

“A spice cake?” She’s not particularly interested, but he seems to expect it.

“You see, when we took the- what was it again?”

“The Fair Chance,” Mark says.

“Yes, the Fair Chance — you see, there was a dispute over rights to a cake, and there’s been no peace ever since. I told Denton to leave off, but I guess he’s learnt it’s unwise to provoke men who have a penchant for sharp knives. And now he wants me to compensate him from the injury fund … ” He shrugs expansively, suggesting both the absurdity of the request and the fact that he’ll probably give in anyway. “Ah! Before I forget: for the house.” From an interior pocket, he produces a purse. It lands on the table with a musical _clink_ ; Max spares it a glance before sliding it across to Idelle. 

“And for the lady of the house.” He retrieves a large packet resting against his chair and presents it to her with a flourish. It’s a light bundle, paper tied with twine. She tugs the knot loose.

“Changeant,” he says — almost reverently — as the paper falls open. At first Max can’t discern what’s inspired his tone; the silk looks lovely, but an ordinary enough shade of gray. Then she moves to stroke it and the color shifts to a blushing pink. She tips the packet to the other side, and it flashes turquoise. 

“ _Mon dieu_ ,” she gasps.

“It’s like a pearl,” Idelle breathes from across the table.

“Made me think of a pigeon,” Anne says.

Featherstone and Mark go quiet, too, and Featherstone gingerly reaches out.

“May I?” he asks, and Max wordlessly passes it over the table to him to admire. She turns back to Jack. He’s practically _preening_. She’s loathe to encourage these fits of self-satisfaction … and yet.

“Thank you, Jack,” she says, with genuine gratitude. The silk is utterly impractical; inappropriate for any venue in Nassau; likely to be butchered by the seamstress. But it’s beautiful.

Jack draws himself up to his full height with a wiggle of pleasure, and shoots Anne a smug look. Anne scoffs. Clearly there was some discussion about this gift. Jack’s victory, however, is short-lived: there’s a tap on Max’s shoulder and a voice in her ear.

“So sorry to interrupt, ma’am, but there’s a matter that needs your attention.” It’s one of the young intermediaries of the nascent island government — a Brady, Brodie, something of that nature.

“Of course,” she murmurs, and rises to her feet. 

Anne’s head tilts up. She gives Max’s hand a little squeeze before relinquishing her grip. Then Max is following the young Brady (Brodie?) out to the street, the little party fading into silhouettes as Jack leans forward, trying to engage Featherstone and Idelle on the finer points of warp and weft.

—

Max returns late in the night, having successfully settled a dispute about a horse (which was really a dispute about a woman). One of claimants was a proper gentleman, and she’d had to tread with care — lately, she finds more and more of her time is spent mollifying men who have vast reserves of wealth and self-importance and very little practical experience. It’s less strenuous work than her prior occupation, but exhausting nonetheless. Her stomach is growling dreadfully.

She finds the party where she left them, considerably deeper in their cups: Featherstone is relating a story about a ship’s cat she’s heard on no less than three separate occasions. A pewter plate marks the place she abandoned, a cold, gray pork knuckle resting beside an apple and biscuit. Jack lifts his long legs from her seat with a groan.

Anne is slouching in her chair, her hat pulled low. She favors Max with a crooked smile.

“What took so long?” 

“Men,” Max sighs. She slides into her chair without bothering to brush away the sand from Jack’s boots. One hand slips under Anne’s elbow, giving her belt a nudge; without turning, Anne unsheathes a knife and passes it to her. Max slices the apple and chews mechanically, feeling worn down, blank — tasting none of the sweetness of the fruit. 

Jack looks far away, either more tired or drunk than she’s accustomed to seeing him. Idelle is quietly directing the business of the brothel, receiving whispers and dispensing counsel. (Max feels an surge of pride at this: Idelle has shown a surprising talent for management under her tutelage.) Featherstone, at least, looks to be enjoying himself, momentarily free of the shackles of respectability. And Mark is —

Max goes still.

Mark is perched on the edge of Anne’s chair, one arm slung across the back, half hidden by Anne’s hair. There’s a familiar intimacy to their pose, to the place where their hips rest against each other under the table. Mark murmurs something to Anne, and she laughs, leaning in. Belatedly, Max remembers to swallow.

She feels like something inside her is beating against her ribs, like the center of her is collapsing and constricting, all at once. She swallows again, thickly; for some reason, she can’t seem to turn away. 

Jack is staring at her.

She feels a spasm of guilt, like she’s been caught spying. She understands at once that he sees what she has seen, and that he’s also seen _her_. That it should be Jack — that she should be left so exposed, so defenseless in front of him of all people — strikes her as a particularly bitter absurdity. Still, she lifts her chin, daring him to comment. 

Jack smiles to himself, but just as quickly, it drops. He is suddenly very interested in his fingernails. 

“They aren’t … anything, you know. Not yet, anyhow,” he says in a low voice, darting a glance to Anne and Mark.

She blinks rapidly; her eyes are stinging. She is so intent upon holding back tears that it takes her a beat to process what he’s said.

“Why do you tell me this?”

He cocks his head to the side, considering. As if the question had not occurred to him.

“Perhaps … perhaps it’s sympathy, however misplaced. Despite everything.” For a moment, she thinks he is going to recite his list of grievances, and she braces herself for that fight. But his fingers drum along the table, and he seems to reconsider. He looks at her directly. “You’ve been good to her. You’ve been good _for_ her. And make no mistake, I don’t dislike him — he’s a perfectly competent seaman and seems agreeable enough — I just … ” 

There’s a long pause. He looks ‘round the table, at Idelle and Featherstone, she and Anne, and she understands him perfectly.

“We’ve all lost so much,” he says. 

Her gaze falls on the packet. It leans against his chair, neatly retied. Despite the changes in Nassau, she realizes she’s had a fixed picture of Jack in her mind, one that doesn’t account for the loss of his comrades or the isolation of his position. It takes only a small shift for her to see him as he is now: without competition, without legacy, without Anne to share his bed or hammock or wherever else they used to fuck. 

She doesn’t know where the silk was made. But perhaps, she thinks, it traveled to her from a place of deep loneliness. 

__

By the time Anne rises to retire, Max has migrated across the table, beside Idelle. They’ve been going back and forth about a merchant for what feels like an hour. Idelle believes he is shorting them on fees, but unsure of how to confront him.

“I never thought I’d miss the days when I could just fuck the answer out of him,” she grumbles, exasperated. Featherstone gives her a reassuring pat on the arm, too drunk to catch her meaning.

Anne comes ‘round the table, behind Max. She ducks down, laying a hand on Max’s shoulder.

“Better come up soon,” she says, her long hair drawing a curtain between them and the rest of the room. Briefly, Max forgets about Mark, about the churn of her own fears and insecurities. Anne’s breath smells of rum; her cheeks are flushed a lovely shade of pink. She looks profoundly content.

“Why is that?” Max asks.

“‘M about to drop dead asleep on my feet.” Anne affects a little sway — bumping Max’s shoulder with her hip — and dips a quick kiss to her forehead, then she’s climbing the stairs. She pauses on the landing and glances down at Max, her eyebrows raised in question.

Max nods: _I’ll be up shortly_. Anne returns the nod, and slips into the shadows of the balcony. The door opens and closes soundlessly above the din of the brothel.

Max chews her lip. She turns her attention to Jack: presently, he’s sprawled low in his chair, discussing strategy with Mark and Featherstone. She’s been looking at him out of the corner of her eye ever since Idelle called her over, an idea tugging her at the edge of her mind.

She wants to bring him upstairs.

It might be a terrible idea. It’s certainly selfish — tangled, as it is, as much in her fears about Mark as a genuine desire to bring Jack into their bed again. But she also can’t ignore the surge of attraction she feels at the kindness he’s shown her. She has a strange faith in Jack’s ability to perceive all of these things, to recognize her motives at a glance. He’s always had a gift for discernment.

As much as she prefers women — as much as she likes the shape of women, the way that touching Anne feels like love and not work — she’s not blind to the charms of the occasional man. And she’s long been curious about Jack. The first time they’d shared a bed, his focus had been entirely singular, as though Anne were his north star and he navigated by her alone. But in later encounters, Max had sensed his gaze drifting toward her. Once, she’d reached out and cupped his cheek. He had met her eyes, then; his expression had been unreadable.

She wonders what it would be like to be touched by him.

Anne has told her some of his predilections: his desire to be tied, sometimes, and his fondness for her finger in his ass. But Anne hasn’t spoken much about the intimacies they shared, how much in the way she touches and kisses and fucks bears Jack’s imprint — maybe she doesn’t even know, doesn’t remember what was innate and what she learned along the way. How much Jack, in turn, rearranged himself to fit her.

Max wonders if he would look at her the way he looked at Anne. Or if fucking him would be like fucking her own reflection.

If, in his black eyes, she’d see a shadow self.

—

In the end, she doesn’t make a conscious choice. One moment she’s idly plotting the direction her decision might take them, the next she’s pushing back her chair, giving his hand a tap. Jack looks up, a bit dazed. She tilts her head, indicating a quiet corner near the foot of the stairs. She doesn’t wait for him to follow.

“What?” he says, sliding in place beside her. Suddenly he’s alert, wide-awake: curiosity has sharpened his focus. His readiness to indulge in conspiracy has always been one of his more endearing traits, and she can’t help but give a little laugh. Something tips — she abandons herself to the foolishness of this endeavor with a rush of courage (or recklessness).

“Come upstairs,” she says.

He recoils in confusion, his eyes flicking up to the balcony before returning to her.

“ _What?_ ” 

“Come. Upstairs. With me,” she repeats, enunciating each word with the slightest _soupçon_ of mockery. She ought not to enjoy this, ought not to take pleasure in the way he shifts from foot to foot, literally off balance. He glances up at the balcony again, then narrows his eyes.

“Is this about earlier?” he asks.

Ah, there it is. But something in his tone — something about the way he says “earlier” when he means “Mark” — quiets her amusement.

“You showed me kindness, earlier,” she says simply. 

“I didn’t do it in any expectation of …” He shakes his head, pressing his lips together. She raises her eyebrows.

“Of some sort of _reward_ ,” he says after a moment, and has the good grace to immediately look sheepish at how sharp it comes out.

Her hands go to her hips. “What makes you think this is a reward?”

“I-” he begins, but she holds up a hand.

“Do you want to go upstairs with me or not?”

He gapes at her for a long beat, then scoffs, looking over his shoulder. When he turns back to her, she knows at once what his reply will be, because she can hear it, clear as a bell: _absolutely not._

But something catches him short. He closes his mouth. For once, Jack doesn’t say anything at all.

—

Anne’s shirt hangs loose, its hem brushing her thighs. Her boots stand beside the bed; she’s laying her trousers on the vanity when Max enters. She straightens with a smile, then Jack steps in behind Max.

“The fuck is this?” Anne says, jerking back as if bitten.

“Her idea.” Jack’s hands shoot up placatingly, one finger helpfully pointing in Max’s direction. They both stare at her. She takes a deep breath.

“It was my idea,” she confirms to Anne, and then to the both of them: “Please, trust me.” 

“Trust you?” Anne repeats. She wrinkles her nose, showing her dogteeth.

Max nods, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world.

She guesses Anne’s reaction has little to do with Jack himself. They both know Anne still adores him, even if she's no longer interested in fucking him. But Max also remembers the look of naked jealousy on her face the last time she and Jack had reached across the bed to each other. 

If she’s honest with herself, part of her has wanted him since then. Anne has never stopped loving him. And Jack? Jack brings her silk and stares longingly at Anne and makes little use of a brothel he still putatively owns.

Isn’t this the simplest solution?

She swallows. With a confidence she doesn’t entirely feel, she reaches for Jack’s cravat and tugs him toward the bed. Her skirts rise around her hips as she perches on the end, and as though mesmerized, he follows her down, kneeling before her. His eyes are huge and black in the candlelight.

With one hand, she works at her stays, and with the other, she guides him to her neck. She lifts her chin, pulling Jack closer, fixing her gaze on Anne over his shoulder. The shirt hangs open on Anne’s slim frame, her shoulders slight but strong. A pang of doubt lances through Max at the sight of her.

But Jack is murmuring something, his breath warm against her skin. He presses a kiss to her neck, into the hollow of her clavicle. She can feel him thinking, his mind skipping over possible intentions and probable outcomes — she can sense he’s still not entirely sure why he’s here. She dips a kiss to his forehead, smoothing his dark hair. Glancing over his head, she sees Anne has settled on the stool at the vanity. Anne’s lips are parted. Her eyebrows are drawn together, as if in intense concentration.

Jack pauses to follow her gaze. He looks from Anne to her, and when their eyes meet, she can perceive the precise moment that he understands this is as much _for_ Anne as it is about Anne. The realization hangs suspended between them, her breath stalled in her lungs, thinking he might object to being used in such a way, might simply get to his feet and end this whole ridiculous affair.

Instead, he huffs out a laugh. It’s hard, edged with incredulity, as though he can’t quite believe her audacity.

Emboldened, he dips a hand into her shift, running his thumb over her nipple. He glances up at her, a challenge in his expression. She responds by rucking her skirts higher, wrapping her legs around his middle. His hand drops to her waist; his mouth closes around her nipple. He sucks it, then there’s the graze of his teeth. Max gasps.

Across the room, Anne’s breath hitches.

The sound of it goes to the center of Max, right to the coiling tension low in her belly. She anchors one hand in Jack’s hair — so much shorter than she’s accustomed to — and locks eyes with Anne. A contented noise rises from deep in Jack’s throat, so she winds her grip tighter. She arches into him, enjoying the rasp of his cheek against her breasts, the flush creeping up from the neckline of Anne’s shirt. Seemingly moving of its own accord, Anne’s hand drifts to her own breast, brushing the nipple through the linen of her shirt. 

Without breaking eye contact, Max pushes Jack’s head lower.

She meets no resistance, and yet somehow — despite initiating it herself — the slip of his tongue in the sensitive cleft where her leg meets her pelvis catches her by surprise. Her hips buck.

“All right?” he asks, one eyebrow arching.

“Yes,” she breathes, her hand slipping down his temple to rest on his cheek. Her thumb strokes it gently, tracing the line of his bottom lip. She has to admit: there’s something profoundly attractive about him from this angle.

 _Is this what it was like for Anne?_ , she thinks. For an instant, she’s lost in the fantasy of it — boots on her feet, blood on her hands, Jack between her knees. She feels powerful, like a different kind of queen.

Jack grips her thigh. His breath tickles her wet skin and then his tongue is there, probing the folds of her labia, nimbly running up to her clit and around and back again. Her hips rock against him, and for a moment, she forgets entirely about Anne, about anything, really. One hand twists in the sheets behind her; she’s dimly aware of the bed shifting under her.

Cool hands are on her jaw, her chin, gently turning her face to the side. Instinctively, she opens her mouth, and a tongue slips in. Anne’s face swims into focus, her hair limned in brilliant gold. 

“Oh,” Max moans, perhaps foolishly. Anne withdraws, her lips curving into a smile.

“I trust you,” she whispers.

Jack settles back, breathing hard, watching them. Anne presses her chest against one side of Max’s back; her hand slides under Max’s shift and lifts her breasts free. She palms one roughly, her callouses providing the most delicious friction. Max moans.

It’s at that moment that Jack slips two fingers inside Max, curling them experimentally. She inhales sharply at the chill of his rings and he grins, but Anne captures her mouth. Max leans into it, but her attention abruptly ricochets back to Jack when he pulls out and switches to a rapid, rubbing pressure of one thumb against her clit. She feels the tension twisting tighter, pulling her higher and higher, caught between Anne’s hot mouth and Jack’s clever hand. With her free hand, she reaches blindly toward him, alighting on his shoulder, but he catches her hand and kisses her palm.

The orgasm lifts Max clear from the bed, up into the cool night air, a choked cry bursting from her as her petticoat falls back like the petals of a flower. She pants, wild-eyed and heart pounding, only gradually aware of Anne’s arms wrapped tightly around her, Anne’s lips on her neck and shoulders.

In the darkness at the foot of the bed, Jack rocks back on his heels. He seems uncertain again, as though he’s unsure if his role is concluded. Max notes he’s half-hard in his trousers.

Wordlessly, she waves him up onto the bed with them.

Anne clambers over to make room for him as Max twists, tucking her legs up onto the mattress. He climbs on at the head of the bed, opposite them. His hair looks thoroughly debauched, but he is still fully — awkwardly — dressed. He clears his throat.

“Should I …” he starts. Anne exchanges a look with Max, then shrugs. She pulls her shirt over her head. Her creamy skin glows against the shadows. Reflexively, Jack averts his eyes, then, slowly, his eyes slide back to her. Max smiles indulgently.

“Will you help me with my petticoat?” she says, turning to Anne.

“So we’re gonna do it proper this time?” Anne smirks and reaches for the laces. Together, they make short work of the knots, and Max shimmies free of her skirt and petticoat. Her shift is deposited on top of the pile. She rewards Anne with a peck on the cheek, feeling lighter than she has in months.

They turn to Jack. 

“You know, I have never cared for your cravats,” Max says. A bark of surprised laughter bursts from Anne.

“I beg your pardon?” Jack exclaims, but Anne silences him with a bruising kiss. Max simply watches for a moment, enjoying the picture they make, Anne’s blazing hair and his indigo jacket. Anne pushes it off his shoulders, and Max crosses the bed to join her, fingers working at his cravat. Jack’s hands roam over Anne’s face and Max’s arms, too overwhelmed to settle in one place.

After she disposes of the cravat, Max relieves him of his boots, dropping them to the floorboards with a dull thud. With a nudge, Anne breaks the kiss, and Max indicates his shirt with a tip of her head. Jack blinks dazedly.

“Oh, right,” he says. He grabs the collar behind his head and whisks it off in one swift motion. 

Something compels her to reach out, to run her fingers lightly down his torso. His skin is less scarred than Anne’s; someday, will it become as familiar? He watches her, transfixed.

She traces the line of hair down from his navel, down to the top button of his trousers. 

Anne’s fingers close around her wrist. Max stares at them, trying to divine their meaning — a warning? Wide-eyed, she turns to Anne. All traces of mirth have left Anne’s face.

“This can’t just be about me,” Anne says quietly. 

Warmth rises to Max’s cheeks. She feels a flicker of shame. And yet, is it really so surprising? Jack understands because they think so alike. Of course Anne understands, too. She knows Max’s heart.

Pointedly, Anne turns to Jack. Max follows her gaze.

Looking at Jack, she knows without a doubt he would accept this being about Anne happily, without preconditions, because she knows she would accept it. Were their roles reversed, there’d be no question of her willingness to put aside her own desires in exchange just for the chance to be used in such a way.

But this isn’t just about Anne.

She rests one hand on Jack’s side, feeling his ribs expand under his skin. Waiting, half-expecting Jack to say something, she startles when his hand comes to her face and he pulls her to him, into a kiss. At first, she tenses against him — he feels so different than Anne — but then she becomes aware of strange points of familiarity, like echoes heard from far away. She remembers the smell of him.

His tongue darts past hers, curious and testing. There’s no art in this, but no artifice, either. 

His long fingers stretch against the back of her head, deftly slipping between the pins in her hair; his exploration becomes more confident. His erection presses against her thigh, and without thinking, she pops the button of his trousers and grasps his shaft. He gasps.

Sitting back, she gives it one lazy, assessing stroke. 

“Shit. I mean, I …” he breathes. She gives him a questioning look, but there doesn’t seem to be any more than that.

Beside her, Anne reaches to the table beside the bed, groping in the drawer before returning with a small jar. Twisting the lid off, she gives it a quick sniff and shakes it into Max’s waiting hand. Fat drops of oil hit Max’s palm.

Her hand fairly glides up his shaft now. She pauses, fingertips tickling the ridge on the underside. 

“He likes it when you play with his balls,” Anne whispers, _sotto voce_. Jack levels an acerbic look at her.

“Yes, thank you,” he begins, but he sucks in a breath as Max follows the suggestion. 

Anne kisses her throat as Max begins to work the shaft in earnest, Anne’s palm flattening against her sex. Anne's fingers slide inside of her. She rocks against them, matching Jack’s rhythm. Suddenly she wants Anne’s mouth, to taste her again, so her free hand hooks behind Anne’s ear, guiding her up.

She kisses her messily, joyously, charmed by the unvarnished quality of it all, the sound of Jack’s uneven breath. She fondles Anne’s breast, coaxing the nipple hard; after a beat she realizes she has all but come to a standstill with Jack, and she renews her pace.

Anne’s fingers withdraw from her, and a moment later, close over her hand. Max’s mouth falls open in astonishment, but Anne simply gives her a fist a squeeze. 

Together, they pick up speed.

—

Later, as they lay in bed — Anne on one side, Jack on the other — Max realizes he doesn’t fuck like her, or like Anne, either.

She’s half-turned on her side, her fingers curled against Anne’s cheek. They’ve reached that sleepy, satisfied state beyond words; Anne absently rubs her palm with her thumb. At her back, Jack strokes the curls that lay loose across her shoulders. They create an unconscious rhythm, each unaware of the other’s part.

She turns to regard Jack. He raises his eyebrows expectantly. When she says nothing, he reaches out to run one finger along the braid circling her head.

“I’ve always liked this one. Puts me in mind of a crown,” he says softly.

She catches his hand, pressing her lips to his knuckles, the silver rings there. It’s a choice, she realizes, to accept his words at face value — as accustomed as she is to suspicion, it will certainly take some practice. And yet, there’s a strange peace in it.

Anne lifts her cheek, twining their fingers. Max turns back. There is no jealousy in Anne’s blue eyes, nor regret. She brushes a curl behind Max’s ear and smiles.

Max rolls onto her back, one hand clasped in Anne’s, one hand cradling Jack’s.

It occurs to her that she’s forgotten the silk. She hopes Idelle will have the presence of mind to retrieve it. Closing her eyes, she can see the shifting colors: pink and green and gray in-between.

It would be a shame to lose something so beautiful.

**Author's Note:**

> For DP, from your partner in hurt.


End file.
